


With Excessive Love

by FrostedFox



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Manipulation, Murder Family, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:10:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostedFox/pseuds/FrostedFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The snow turned red beneath her. She turned, and her father was reaching out for her. Blood spilled from his mouth. No. It wasn’t blood. It was thick, golden. Honey."</p><p>Prompt: Abigail and Will have been seeing Hannibal once or twice a week in a sort of duo therapy session. On one such occasion Will is not entirely all there and addresses Abigail with an endearment only her father used, and only ever when they were alone. Abigail freaks out as it is a secret fear of hers that Will carries some of her father inside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Excessive Love

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Sylvia Plath poem, Stings, which can be found here: http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/sylvia-plath/stings/

_“There,” he whispered, pointing at the deer. But the deer became a girl, and the girl moved closer, walked further down the street. They were careful not to let her see, careful not to startle her._

_“Dad,” Abigail whispered, “I can’t, I can’t anymore.”_

_“Honey,” he said, pulling her to face him. “You know what will happen if you don’t.”_

_She did._

_-_

They had a standing appointment for Tuesdays and Thursdays. Hannibal, Will, and Abigail would meet and, in Hannibal’s words, converse. The meetings always felt so casual. They began as a way for Abigail and Will to bond, for Will to get to know her, and for her to learn to trust him. With no friends, no school, and no job, Abigail looked forward to the two days a week when she could get out of the house, focus on something other than her loneliness or her father. She felt needed when she was there, loved. She couldn’t comment on the success of the trust building, but she always felt better after seeing Hannibal. 

She was too afraid of her father, of anything that remained of him, to be truly trusting of the man who was so clearly haunted. 

She left the house rarely - when she felt pent up and stir crazy - to follow Will to his lectures. He never let her listen, never let her watch what he did. He claimed the images that showed up on the screen would be too violent. Instead, she waited outside the lecture hall and watched the various FBI trainees - agents in training - walk past. She wondered what had led them to choose this career path; she figured that most cited a desire to help others. She decided it was probably the power over others that they were really drawn to.

Sometimes she would see young girls with long, dark hair; thin builds; pale skin. Sometimes her lungs would constrict in preparation for the demand to lure them that would never come. Sometimes she planned how she would go about doing it anyways, without thinking. She would feel sick after. 

-

_“Find something you have in common with her,” her dad whispered. Another hushed conversation in another busy place. A retail cashier at the mall in clear view._

_“I like her necklace,” Abigail whispered back._

_“Good girl,” he said, and Abigail started moving, slowly, towards the store. “Oh, and honey?” he called out. She turned sharply to face him again. “I’ll get you one just like it,” he said. Abigail knew what he intended._

_She never once wore the amber necklace he gave her two days later._

_-_  

There was always a stampede of students after Will’s class ended. Abigail would watch their faces. Sometimes they looked disgusted, sometimes in awe. Occasionally, a couple of students would emerge, laughing at some joke, acting as though the class they had just attended had slid off of them like oil on deerskin. When she was sure that everyone had left the hall, she would quickly slip in to see Will gathering his things and stuffing them into his bag, the projector already turned off. 

There was always a moment, and she tried to drag it on for as long as she could, when she could watch Will before he noticed her standing there. He was different when he knew she was around. She could often see the flicker of something darker when he was alone, and recently she had started to wonder about the affects that killing her father had on him. Nicholas Boyle was in her dreams. He followed her, watched her, wanted to be a part of her, but she never let him in. It took everything she had most days, but she refused. It would be so easy to give in. She wondered if Will had given in. God knows her father was a more persistent man than Nicholas Boyle.

“What do you want to do for dinner?” Will asked as she strode across the floor, heels clicking. Not a hunter anymore.

“It’s Thursday,” she reminded him.  

“So it is.” He looked at his watch. “I suppose we better get going,” he said. Abigail plucked his bag off of the desk and swung it around her shoulder. She looked like a student this way. She fit in with the herd. 

Will drove even though Abigail was perfectly capable. It was a favour to both of them. This way, Abigail didn’t need to think about anything except what was to come. Will did his best to avoid that kind of thinking completely. From the edge of her vision, Abigail saw a flicker of change in Will. Someone else was there. She pretended she didn’t recognize him.

They arrived a couple of minutes early, waited until Hannibal opened the door at precisely 6 o’clock. He had no prior patients. Abigail often wondered why he didn’t leave his door open for them. They couldn’t be just another couple of patients to him. Not after everything. Once inside, Will made a B-line  for one of the comfortable armchairs in the center of the room. Abigail took her time, as she always did, admiring the beauty of the large, mahogany room. 

Hannibal always set out the chairs so that there were two facing one. There was an implied difference there. Abigail understood. Hannibal took his seat across from Will as Abigail meandered over. She sat slowly, elegantly, and crossed her legs. She always took her time, made them wait. It was a reminder to herself that they cared. 

-

_She was on her way to bed. Hair damp from her shower. She had to say goodnight, knew she had to, or he would be angry the next morning. She saw him, sitting alone on the couch. He turned and stood when he saw her coming._

_“I’m just going to bed,” she said. “Wanted to say goodnight.”_

_“Sleep well, honey,” he said, taking her in his arms. “Tomorrow will be a big day.” He dug his fingers into her arms as he spoke. She nodded against his chest, squeezed her eyes shut._  

_-_

Hannibal was looking at her fondly. Will was lacing and unlacing his fingers together, looking around the room. Abigail decided to watch him and wait for Hannibal to make the first move, to ask the first question.

“How was your day today, Abigail?” Hannibal asked, leaning back in his chair. Abigail watched as Will turned his head to look at her. She felt the attention. She paused to hold it. 

“Tired,” she said honestly. She could have lied. He would have caught it. 

“Did you sleep well? Any nightmares?”

“Yes,” Abigail said, “but not mine.” She glanced over at Will. “I can hear you, when you dream, when it’s bad. I can hear you walking around, crying out.”

“Abigail-” Will started, possibly, to apologize, but Abigail interrupted the thought by standing up. She needed Will to stop talking so she could continue. 

Completely interrupting him would be considered rude. 

“It’s fine. I’m sorry. I had a good day today. That’s the answer you want, and it’s the truth. I like going to Quantico. I like seeing the other people. I like getting out. Today has been good.” She was looking up at the loft, but out of the corner of her eye she had seen Hannibal nod, turn to Will. 

“And yours, Will?”

Will only shook his head, turned to her. “Abigail, I didn’t know I disturbed you. I- Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not your fault and it would change nothing,” she replied, matter-of-factly. 

Will stuttered, he needed more. “Abigail, honey-”

Her world froze, or burned, or melted. She stopped moving, realized she stopped moving, felt the eyes on her. One pair unknowing, looking for impossible solace; the other watching carefully, curiously, and she could feel the difference. Her breathing increased without her consent. She was fighting the memories, but they were clawing her mind apart and crawling in. 

One word. How had it opened her so completely?

One moment she was in the large, familiar room, the next she was drudging through the snow. She could feel the crunch of it under her feet, could smell the freshness of it. She could hear him behind her as well. She walked faster. Her feet lost purchase in a patch of black ice and she fell. She felt the shock reverberate through her spine as her knees slammed down onto the hardwood floor of the office. She saw, for a split second, Will rising to his feet to help her. She saw Hannibal already approaching her. She screwed her eyes shut. It was too dark here, so much brighter in the snow. 

-

_If she hadn’t slipped, she would have made it. She had never slipped before. She wasn’t supposed to. She walked faster, faster, so close to running. She didn’t run, knew that would invite suspicion. She could hear his breathing increasing behind her. “Honey!” he called. “Honey, where are you going?”_

_-_

“Where did you go?” It wasn’t the voice of her father this time. “Abigail, what do you see?”

“Snow,” she said. “Snow and- and blood.” As soon as she said it, it became truth. 

-

 _The snow turned red beneath her. She turned, and her father was reaching out for her, blood spilled from his mouth. No. It wasn’t blood. It was thick, golden. Honey._  

 _-_  

“Abigail?” It was Hannibal again. Worried this time. Worried like her father was. He didn’t want her to leave either. She didn’t want to leave. She reached out in the hopes someone would give her something to hold onto. She was cold. She was sick of the snow. Rough hands found hers, raised her to her feet, led her back to the chair. Her eyes were closed. She was happier blinded. She slumped back in the chair, wrapped her arms around herself, breathed. 

She heard Hannibal sit down across from her, felt Will’s hands move from her own and rest on her shoulders. He wasn’t going to leave her. A sob was torn from her throat. She hugged herself tighter, remembered how her father had held her.

“Abigail, you need to open your eyes now.”

“Do I?” She knew better than to outright refuse.

“Abigail,” he warned. She gave in, opening her eyes to glare. The anger didn’t last long when she saw him smiling back. He was so warm. The opposite of snow. The hands on her shoulders squeezed gently.

“I believe you just had a panic attack,” Hannibal said. “Triggered, it seems, by the spontaneity of it. Could you think back to what could have started it?”

Abigail nodded, tilted her head back to look at Will. 

“My father, he, uh, used to call me that name.”

“Name?” Hannibal questioned. Abigail knew the moment Will realized because she felt his hands tense again, before releasing her entirely. He moved over to Hannibal, whispered in his ear. Abigail was grateful for the protection from it. It all felt so silly now, for a moment.

When Will turned back to face her, it wasn’t Will she saw, but her father. Flicking in and out. She wanted to close her eyes again, but knew that Hannibal would only chastise her, question her. She stared. Stared right through him. She pretended she was in the lecture hall, watching Will at his work. She knew it was Will, she knew until it wasn’t anymore. 

She looked for Hannibal, strained to see him, but he had disappeared. He had left her to fend for herself. He wanted to know what she saw.

She knew now. She knew Will’s limits, or rather, that they had been breached. She knew that Garett Jacob Hobbs had invited himself in. His death wasn’t on her, not really, but he was still watching her. It was everything she feared, though she suspected part of her had always known and felt his presence. She brought her knees into her chest.

He came closer, stalking his prey. This time she couldn’t run. She only looked up, looked into his eyes. She blinked once, twice, no tears escaped. Instead, a word, dragged from the depths of her as he moved closer.

“Dad?”

“Yes, honey. I’m here. I’m always here.”

And she felt like she was home. Felt it even as she shoved the blade into his chest, twisted, watched the honey spill from his lips. 

**Author's Note:**

> It is almost over.  
> I am in control.  
> Here is my honey-machine,  
> It will work without thinking,  
> Opening, in spring, like an industrious virgin 
> 
> \- Sylvia Plath, Stings


End file.
